The heavy tick-tock of an old wooden clock echoed through the living room. The small hands of the clock refused to move right, and his father, sleeves rolled up and brows furrowed in focus, was gently opening up the back panel.

Little Ruslan, barely taller than the table, leaned close with wide, curious eyes, his elbows propped on the wooden surface. Ostap, still in his early teens, was lazily balancing a wooden spoon on his nose while Andry, the middle brother, sat cross-legged, sketching something absentmindedly.

As the clock’s back came loose, a faded photograph slipped out—fluttering like a forgotten leaf.

It landed softly at Ruslan’s feet.

He picked it up with his tiny hands and turned to his father.

“Papa… who’s this? Is this… mama?”

The room stilled.

His father paused, eyes slowly lifting from the gears and springs. He took the photo from Ruslan’s hands—his fingers lingered on it as though it might vanish with the touch.

In the dim evening light, he smiled. But his smile was laced with sorrow.

“Yes… that’s her,” he said softly. “Your mother… she was from Novgorod.”

Ostap and Andry looked up now, drawn in by the shift in his voice.

“A rival city,” the father continued, voice gentle. “But that never mattered to us. We met by the banks of our rivers… near the Krom. I still remember the moment I proposed to her—”

His eyes grew misty.

“The sun was setting… everything bathed in gold. The water shimmered, and the sky glowed. I held her hands, right under the old stone gateway. She cried, said yes, and hugged me like the world had stilled. The runes on that gate behind us... they glowed faintly, almost like they were giving us their blessing.”

He chuckled, but it was a quiet, cracked sound.

“And for a time... we were happy.”

“But… why did she leave us, Papa?” Ostap’s voice broke the warmth, his young tone heavy with the ache only children feel when answers are too large to understand.

Before their father could speak, Andry murmured, “Because she was taken… by her family. Our grandparents. They didn’t want her to be here.”

Silence fell again, longer this time. The ticking of the clock was the only sound.

Their father leaned in and pulled all three boys into his arms.

“Oh, my sons…” he whispered, burying his face in their hair. “She didn’t want to leave. But they gave her no choice. I promise you, one day... I will bring her back.”

His tears touched Ruslan’s scalp.

“Until then—promise me... promise me you’ll grow up to be strong. Good. Kind.”

The three of them, young and wide-eyed, nodded through their tears.
And in that room, lit by the ticking of a stubborn clock, they made a vow.

One day, their family would be whole again.

Snap.
The memory shattered like glass.

Ruslan’s eyes flew open, back in the present—his hands now pressed against the same kind of rune-engraved stone he’d seen in that old photo.

“The shadow… the gate… the runes…”

His breath hitched.

“I remember now…”

His eyes locked on the rune just above his head. It was the same symbol. The one that shimmered in his father's story.

“The code… it’s not just words. It’s a memory.”

The clash between ice and tide continued in the background—pale blue and silver-white flaring across the battlefield like two divine forces locked in cosmic struggle. But Ruslan—eyes shimmering with determination and memory—was focused on the massive gate, its ancient runes now gently pulsing in the night.

The memory of his father's voice still echoed in his heart. The shadow on the gate. The glow of the runes. It was all true.

He understood now.

The runes responded to darkness.

But the torchlight from the soldiers… it was washing out the glow.

His brows knitted. He clenched his fist around a small mana fragment, whispering under his breath. A soft ripple of confusion magic spread across the encampment like a gust of unseen wind.

And then—

It worked.

Shouts erupted. Some soldiers stumbled backward, accusing their own comrades. Others tripped over crates or drew weapons in paranoia. Torches were knocked over, flames flaring and scattering. The once-coordinated perimeter broke into complete chaos.

But General Gabriel was not like the others.

The seasoned commander’s eyes sharpened the moment he sensed the subtle manipulation in the air.

He turned slowly, cloak billowing behind him, and his voice rang out—measured, wrath-less, cold.

“So... the little worm is braver than I thought.”

With one motion, he stretched out his arm. A shimmering glyph of intricate design formed in front of him—summoning his personal weapon, the legendary Skolot-Zaslon Velesch.

Forged of obsidian and dusk-steel, the shield was a thing of awe and terror—a deadly discus in the hands of a man who had broken armies with it. The curved front shimmered with layers of scarred silver, bearing the faint etching of a phoenix devouring its own wings—a symbol whispered about across the war-fronts of many lands.

It was not merely a shield. It was a sentence.

And with a flick of his wrist—

He hurled it.

The air screamed.

A bladed blur sliced through the night, tearing the very wind apart as it hurtled toward Ruslan.

Avikarh turned—but even his reflexes couldn’t match the sheer velocity.

Ruslan’s heart froze. His eyes caught the gleam for half a second—his mouth barely forming a word.

And then—

A gust.

No, a surge.

Like a blade of compressed wind, an unseen force intercepted the Skolot-Zaslon Velesch midair with a thunderous clang. Sparks and magical residue erupted like fireflies. The redirected shield ricocheted off toward the stone city wall, where it embedded itself deep with a sound like thunder splitting the earth.

Everyone froze—even Gabriel.

The field fell silent, save for the distant clash of Avikarh and Varunesh, whose glowing elemental energies still dueled against the darkness.

Then came the whispering howl of leaves.

All eyes turned upward.

Far above, hidden in the boughs of a dead tree, a solitary figure in dark robes crouched effortlessly on a branch, eyes glinting like a hunter’s beneath a low hood. His presence had been invisible—undetectable even to Gabriel himself. The man—or perhaps something more—was now watching the battlefield with quiet intensity, his aura cold, calculated, and untethered.

Gabriel narrowed his gaze, visibly irritated but not yet reacting.

Down below, Ruslan had fallen on one knee, the wind from the impact still ringing in his ears. His face was pale. He’d just stared death in the eye. But somehow, he lived.

He stood.

Slowly. But he stood.

Around him, the torches had been extinguished. Darkness now cloaked the rear gate. But in that darkness—

—the runes began to glow.

Pale. Ethereal. Just like his father had described.

“The shadow of ours fell on the gateway… the runes shined…”

Ruslan’s breath caught in his throat. The letters illuminated in a specific sequence—one after the other—forming a riddle only the past could solve.

He etched the glowing sequence into his mind, repeating it under his breath like a sacred chant.

Then, heart pounding but with no time to waste, he dashed across the broken path toward the stone arch of the gate—determined, trembling, and alive.

Amidst the stone giants of Pskov’s fortress, the ancient gate towered silently—its heavy surface etched with time-worn runes that now shimmered faintly in the darkness. The confusion among the soldiers still echoed like distant murmurs, but Ruslan stood close, eyes locked onto the old locking mechanism.

His fingers trembled, but not from fear—from urgency. With one last glance at the glowing inscription now etched into memory, he traced the correct digits across the rune-dials, whispering softly.

“Krom’s twilight… open the forgotten path.”

A click—loud and final—reverberated through the stone.

The gate shuddered.

With a thunderous groan, the titanic structure began to open, its seams releasing a low hum of ancient magic. From within, a swirling portal ignited to life—its surface pulsing in shades of violet and silver-blue, like a whirlpool of starlight leading into the fortified depths of the city.

“NOW!” Ruslan cried out, voice barely heard over the whirling energy.

Avikarh, still locked in fierce combat with Varunesh, heard the signal. His eyes flared with resolve.

But then—

Gabriel moved.

The General had anticipated it. With that ever-calm, calculating precision, he stepped directly into the path between Avikarh and the portal, his crimson cloak dragging behind him like spilled ink. A dozen elite soldiers flanked him with lightning speed, halberds gleaming under the chaos-lit sky.

“You're not getting past,” he said coldly, voice layered in menace.

But fate had other plans.

A howling gust—strong and sudden—swept across the field. Dust and light exploded into a blinding sheet. Torches flickered out. Soldiers shielded their eyes.

In that moment of stolen sight—

Avikarh moved.

With a sharp twist, he spun out of Varunesh’s hold, delivering a precise mana-infused palm strike to his chest—enough to knock the mind-controlled boy away without lasting harm. The blue flames swirling around Varunesh scattered like petals in a storm.

Then Avikarh’s form vanished into motion.

He sprinted forward, cloak tearing the wind. He slipped right past Gabriel—too fast, too unpredictable. The soldiers raised weapons but it was already too late.

With a swift, protective motion, he scooped up Ruslan and Ostap—the latter still woozy—and leapt through the gateway’s threshold.

“NO!” Gabriel barked.

“AFTER THEM!”

Varunesh, recovering with a hollow glare, launched himself forward. Gabriel’s elites surged, weapons drawn, following the command without hesitation.

But then—

The portal began to close.

Its swirling light dimmed, the runes along the gate pulsing one final time before fading into stillness.

With a sigh like a breeze exhaling into eternity, the massive gate sealed shut once more.

And just like that—they were gone.

A moment passed.

Gabriel stood still.

The silence that followed was heavy.

He clenched his fists.

His brow twitched.

A ripple of sheer rage crawled beneath his calm surface.

“Damn it!” he roared, voice cracking through the night like a storm. His boot struck the stone, sending a crack down the ancient steps.

But only for a moment.

Then, as if swallowing his own fury whole, Gabriel inhaled deeply—his rage dissolved into steel composure. He turned on his heel, eyes sharp like the blade of a veteran forged by a thousand wars.

“Bring the remaining elites. We return to the base. This is to be reported to Lord Mayor Alexander personally,” he commanded.

The soldiers straightened, saluted, and moved out swiftly.

But none noticed it.

Up in the shadows, where the leaves no longer rustled and the night clung like a cloak—

the stranger was no longer there.

He had slipped through the portal too.

Silent. Unseen. Uninvited.

The air around the closed gate shimmered once, then faded.

And the night fell still again.